


Potions

by yikes_TM



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Death Eaters, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry is a Little Shit, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Horcruxes, Luna Lovegood is: the best, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, Violence, War, a lot of studious conversations that give h & d academic boners, a slow burn that makes u go huh r they ever gonna fuck, but things aren't super canon, heres the question: will they ever finish their potions project? I am gonna say no, oh!!!!!! also!!!!!, they will fuck I promise, things get Spicy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:57:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikes_TM/pseuds/yikes_TM
Summary: He wanted to start a war, she wanted to prove her friends wrong — it seems like neither of them will ever succeed.





	1. chapter one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the sound of her name, Hermione's eyes jerked up in adamant horror and met Malfoy's at once, the pair of them squinting in annoyed bewilderment at each other from across the dungeon.
> 
> "Oh no," Hermione muttered to herself as she pushed herself up from behind the desk, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach, "this can't be happening." 
> 
> Unfortunately for everyone involved, it was. Malfoy was dealing with similar feelings of displeasure as he watched Granger make her way towards him, her arms perched firmly on her hips. In the grand scheme of things, being partnered with a Mudblood wasn't the worst thing that could've happened to Draco Malfoy (He could've been eaten by the giant squid in the lake, or perhaps Professor McGonagall could've forced him to participate in a hugging contest with a Hippogriff) but it pretty fucking high on the list. If it had been any other Mudblood in the entire school, Draco could've dealt with it with the poise and grace only a Malfoy possessed (i.e. being a dick) but this was Hermione Granger, his insults had never seemed to affect her, no matter how hard he tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here I go! this is nerve-racking! ahhhh!!!

Hermione Granger wasn't the sort of girl who enjoyed group projects — once submerged in the said academic situation, she tended to thrive under pressure and quickly assume her rightful authoritative position, proving to everyone she could complete the task by herself. It was undeniably a frustrating atmosphere, trapped within a never-ending cycle of her classmates wrong answers, and her own misery. No, what really bothered Hermione Granger, was her professors adamant insistence that she work alongside her classmates.

Group projects reminded her of mundane memories of primary school, how her below-subpar classmates would somehow always get credited for her work. Her surprising hatred for group activities was a monstrous coffee stain on her otherwise spotless attitude towards education.

Despite Hermione’s previous track record with the education system, her sixth year was proving to be the most difficult. Not only was the world she lived in growing continuously darker by the moment, but potions class seemed to be the fundamental root of all her problems.

_** Potions**_.

Somehow, someway, Harry had surpassed her moderately impressive talent in brewing potions, and that was a problem. Despite her forced positive attitude, problems kept popping up all around Hermione; not only was their new potions professor practically begging Harry to live in a glass case by his bed, but Professor Slughorn seemed to disregard _EVERYTHING_ Hermione said. It was unbelievable, unjust, and most importantly, yet another unwanted problem to crowd her (already jammed packed) brain.

“You really should follow my instructions.” Harry murmured out of the side of his mouth, his eyes still fixed unblinkingly ahead, “It's obviously the correct way to do it.” Even as he spoke, his Potion began to simmer a reproachful shade of blue — exactly what the entire classroom had been working feverishly towards for the past forty-five minutes.

“Perhaps,” Hermione hissed from between her teeth as she continued to angrily stir her Potion (which was an unforgiving shade of yellow) “_YOU_ should stop listening to the writings of a mysterious book — do you remember what happened last time you listened to whatever a book told you? You fought a snake and Ginny ended up killing chickens! So many chickens, Harry.” Hermione let out a disapproving sigh, her flyaways fluttering in front of her vision.

“The potion is supposed to be red, right?” Ron blindly interrupted, his brow furrowed as he stirred his blood red position, his left eyebrow still smoking. (From where Pansy Parkinson had “accidentally” flung a spoonful of her pink Potion at his face)

“No, Ron.” Hermione snapped, still breathing heavily. “It's supposed to be _that_ color,” she gestured angrily with her spoon in Harry’s direction, splattering her potion across their tables surface, “Take a look at the insufferable idiot you share a room with.” She slammed her fist against the leaves she should've been properly chopping (this way, it released more of her stress) and fought off the urge to silently cause Harry’s cauldron to explode.

“Do you mind if I just…” Ron trailed off, casually copying the unfamiliar scrawling that covered Harry’s pages on the back of his hand, once again vanishing from the argument.

“Are you finished?” Harry asked, with the sort of edge to his voice that implied dangerous and uncharted territories lay ahead in their conversation, “because I have to turn my potion in. You know, the perfect example of what Slughorn wanted..”

“I'm not even close to being finished,” Hermione argued, her finger jutting outwards and angrily jabbing against the front of Harry's robes (a bad habit the both had grown accustomed to — when angry, Hermione poked) “**You are cheating**.”

“Like you've never done anything wrong before!” Harry fired back, his voice climbing to an angry whisper, which was beginning to attract several moderately amused stares from their classmates — “If I can remember correctly, last Saturday morning — ”

“That wasn't _cheating_.” Hermione interrupted, her cheeks quickly filling with blush at Harry’s mention of her casual rule breaking the previous weekend — he had found her in the kitchen, attempting to enchant several house-elves into believing they were diplomats from Spain.

“Oh, it wasn't?” Harry shot back, mimicking the way she spoke; despite his juvenile approach to annoying Hermione, it worked. Huffing angrily, Hermione surged sideways, attempting to grab the Potions book, intent on using it as kindling for the common room fire.

“Hermione — what the _hell_ — get **OFF**!” Harry complained, his voice tinged with surprise as he held the potions book above his head, his gangly arms aiding him in their scuffle. The slight disruption from their usual whispering caused Ron to look up, roll his eyes, and return to his potion, which now held the consistency of a thick purple soup.

“Give it —” Hermione grunted through clenched teeth, her arms flailing about furiously, as if she was a passive aggressive windmill, “ — _Harry_!” Despite her best attempts, Harry shoved her back into her seat, the potions book secured firmly under his left arm. Breathing heavily, he pushed his hair out of his vision, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“You're mental!” he hissed, “Let me make my **own** choices! I _know_ what I’m doing — ”

“No, you don't.” Hermione interrupted him, angrily stirring her potion, refusing to acknowledge how hopeless her entire situation was, “You're going to end up killing someone.”

“No, I'm not!” Harry argued back, his voice raising an octave above whispering, causing several students to turn and watch in bewilderment as Harry Potter argued with Hermione Granger, both angrily stirring their potions as they spoke; as their argument progressed, the quicker they stirred.

“_YES_,” Hermione growled in his direction, her attention from their argument momentarily faltering as her school robes caught on fire (she had placed her sleeve a little too close to the flame underneath her cauldron. Perhaps, if she tried hard enough, her sleeves minor combustion could be used as poignant example of Harry’s reckless track record.) “You just might kill someone, I mean, out of the three of us, you’re the only one with a previous track record involving **DEATH**!”

“Look —” Ron interjected, his (still smoking) eyebrows screwed together in concentration as his potion began to resemble the color of mustard, “ — ‘Mione, it's _Harry_. He’ll be alright...and even if this book ends up being dangerous, he’ll be _fine_. It'll be like it always is.” He looked up to find both his friends looking at him in bewilderment.

“What?” Ron squawked, “I'm just speaking from experience! Everything always ends up **fine** for Harry, I mean, he could've picked any of the books...but he picked that one.” He nudged his best friend's shoulder, “Maybe it's good luck.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, in a smug sort of way, “this book probably is lucky Hermione, I need all the luck I can get.”

“_Ron_!” Hermione hissed in exasperation, still slightly smoking, “You're supposed to make him feel **BAD** about using the book, not rekindle the fire of heroism that constantly burns underneath him!” Turning to Harry, Hermione opened her mouth, intent on lecturing him until the sun went behind the clouds, but instead she found an empty seat and a retreating figure as Harry made his way to the front of the class, his cauldron clutched in his grasp.

“I hate him.” Hermione murmured sourly, slouching back into her seat, returning her attention to her potion, which was beginning to turn a dark navy. “He never _thinks_.”

“He'll be fine.” Ron repeated, sounding like a broken children's toy, “ — by the way. Do you remember what Harry's book said to do? My instructions smudged together.” He held up his right hand, showing that his carefully scrawled instructions had indeed become an inky mess.

“Please shut up.” Hermione whispered, concentrating on not smashing her head against the desks wooden surface, “I'm trying to think.”

Ron’s aggressive mumbling faded to silence as he attempted to decipher his own writing and Hermione was finally granted what she'd always wanted: silence. Of course, her bliss was short-lived.

“Sluggy loved it.” Harry greeted the pair when he returned, failing to acknowledge the death glares Hermione shot him, and how Ron weakly began attempting to steal Harry’s potions book from his bag, “Told me he'd never seen such a perfect replica.” He smirked, obviously proud of his accomplishments, no matter how he'd achieved them. “

Did you tell _sluggy_ your potion was laced with lies and deceit?” Hermione grumbled, silently berating herself for giving up on her pre-decided silent treatment so quickly. Ron snorted beside her, oblivious to the fact that his potion had turned to the consistency of wet cement.

“I don't understand why you're so interested in my moral compass.” Harry yawned, clearly enjoying himself — it was a rare occasion to see the golden trio without at least one member steaming from an argument, “You’ve helped me break rules loads of times.”

“Very true, you literally brewed an illegal potion when we were twelve, Ron piped up, his face immediately falling once his gaze fell upon his potion, which had evaporated all together, taking his cauldron with it. “What the fuck,” he grumbled, poking his head under the table, obviously looking for his cauldron.

“That is just _one_ of the times.” Harry continued as he tapped his finger lightly against the desk, smiling lightly at the way his best friend began to squirm with anger, “Face it Hermione, you’re just unhappy because you're not the best.”

“Did you take my cauldron — ” Ron began, but was interrupted when Hermione angrily slammed her potions book down against the desk, rising slowly to her feet.

Hermione prided herself in being the rational one, the voice of reason — the reason they were all still alive — but it that moment, all she wanted to do was cause a social disruption. Harry was everything to her, he was her true best friend. During the summer between their second year he had somehow acquired one of his cousins old cell phones and without having any second thoughts, Harry had quickly called Hermione, something he still did almost every summer night they were apart — their friendship was stronger than anything Hermione had ever dreamed of, but there were times where she truly, deeply, unquestionably, wanted to smack his head with a book.

“I am leaving.” She spoke with a level voice, hoisting her cauldron off the table and marching away from their desk, her school bag swinging behind her.

Watching her march to the head of the class, Harry frowned. “She’s only mad because she knows I’m right.” He grumbled, he glanced over at Ron was miserably starting from scratch, using one of the scrappy school cauldrons. “Ron,” Harry spoke in disbelief, “where the fuck is your cauldron?”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Exactly four tables away, Draco Malfoy glared angrily down at his cauldron, his mouth twisted firmly into a frown. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to create the desired potion — his table mates were having similar luck, but they were often subpar at most things, so being in the same boat as them only made Draco’s mood worse. Goyle was sleeping, using his cauldron as a pillow, Crab had been sent the Hospital Wing fourteen minutes earlier, for accidentally eating a beetle, and Theodore Nott had given up altogether and was blatantly doing his charms homework underneath his desk.

Despite his previous success in potions, their new professor was absolute rubbish — Slughorn spent a disgusting amount of time fawning over fucking Harry Potter, who had somehow discovered how to use his brain. Malfoy had spent the first forty-five minutes of class watching the trio from the corner of his eye. There had been some minor explosions (verbally and physically) and it had ended with fucking Potter proudly marching to the front of the class, leaving a steaming (literally) Granger in his wake. Did it bother Draco that Slughorn prefered Potter over him? Not at all. Did it bother Draco that Potter somehow was better than him at something?

_ OF COURSE_.

But, to be perfectly frank, Draco could give exactly zero fucks about Slughorn. He’d be dead soon, they all would. Harry Potter would meet his end, as would his adoring ginger sidekick (who looked worse for wear this morning — was his fucking eyebrow smoking?) and even god damn Granger would finally be silenced. (Yet Draco had a painful feeling that Granger would somehow resurrect herself and haunt him for the rest of his life, her shrill voice filling his brain for eternity.)

“Oi, Malfoy —” a distant whisper broke through Draco’s clouded thoughts of death and destruction, to meet the narrowed eyes of his fellow companion, Pansy Parkinson. Her face was twisted in her ever-present sour expression, her fingers tapping angrily against the wooden top of her table, her potion an alarming color of orange, “— How the fuck do we do this rubbish?” She had constantly turned to Draco for help in potions, his skill in this class had carried practically the entire Slytherine House over the years. Beside her, Zabini carelessly threw an entire frog carcass in his cauldron, causing a purple flame to overflow from the top, burning off his mate’s eyebrows all together.

“Fuck off, Parkinson,” Draco whispered back, inching his cauldron closer to his chest (his potion was a despicable shade of lime green) “Figure out yourself.” Refusing to help Pansy was probably not the smartest choice, she would inevitably make him suffer — Pansy thrived off of others unhappiness. Pretending to ignore her angry expression, Draco began to stir his potion feverishly; this was not the best choice. Somehow, his potion had obtained a somewhat acidic quality, which quickly became prevalent when it dissolved his spoon.

“Pansy,” Zabini whispered hoarsely, momentarily diverting Pansy from glaring at the back of Draco’s head, “My eyebrows are gone.”

Sighing with annoyance, Draco began to rummage through the desk drawers for another spoon — when he heard it: “I'm leaving.” The shrill sound of Hermione Granger’s voice, dripping with annoyance, found its way to his ears. Glancing up from his quest for a spoon, Malfoy caught a glance as Granger stomped past his table, muttering darkly to herself, her cauldron clutched tightly to her chest. Although Malfoy had a hard time deciphering exactly what she was saying, he heard the words “_insufferable_” and “_idiot_” tossed about.

Despite himself, he smirked.

They were in dark times, indeed — a war was looming, darkness was gathering, fear was growing and Draco was at the center of it all. Yet, there he was, sitting in the back of potions class finding it within himself to laugh at the misfortunes of Hermione Granger. More often than not, Draco found himself actually relating to the mudblood; it would happen in the strangest ways — she would laugh at the same jokes their professors told, often he would find her name written neatly on the checkout list to the same books he intended to read, she would roll her eyes at the exact thing he found annoying...it was infuriating. The misfortune of being alike to someone you desperately despise was something Draco wouldn’t wish upon anyone, not even their bloody savior Potter.

In another life — a better life — Draco would’ve dedicated his entire school year to the pursuit of figuring Potter’s overnight success in subject he was clearly inferior in. If he was still twelve years old, desperate for his father's approval, Draco would’ve sabotaged Harry — even two years ago, Draco would’ve allowed his wounded pride to control him. But now? All Draco could do was laugh softly at the misfortunes of Hermione Granger, who was suffering the same fate as he.

“Mate — whatya thinking about?” Goyle asked sleepily, interrupting Draco’s brooding thoughts, “Yer potions on fire.” He concluded his poorly structured sentence with a series of alarmed grunts and frantic hand gestures, causing Malfoy to roll his eyes once again. “My what?” Draco snapped, annoyed that Granger had somehow inspired some nostalgia to take bloom in his chest, “Goyle, use your fucking words. We’ve talked about this.” With a lazy wave of his wand, Draco extinguished the fire.

"In his defense," Theodore murmured, still obviously doing homework for another class, "Your potion _was_ on fire." 

Before Draco could reply (in a most likely grumpy fashion) Slughorn’s voice rang through the musty dungeon, bouncing off the grimy walls, “Attention students! I have a delightful announcement to make!”

“Is it about my growing need to kill myself?” Pansy grumbled as she mixed her sludge-like lime green potion, “because if so, allow me to deliver my 12 minute speech.” When Draco met her eyes, she shrugged. “What?” She whispered, “I've prepared for this moment.”

“For the next 6 weeks, you will be working alongside each other, at an attempt to create a unity between the Houses.” Slughorn gestured to where Potter sat in the back of the class, smiling proudly at his favorite student, “Just ask Harry Potter, the best student in the class — I am undoubtedly his favorite professor, yet I hail from the Slytherin house, Gryffindors sworn enemy.” He chortled slightly, apparently oblivious to the silent awkwardness that had settled above his students. “Each of you will be matched with a student from another house — together, you will work alongside each other to accomplish unthinkable potions, impossible tasks and most importantly, you will begin to understand the importance of having allies who aren’t quite like yourself!”

His booming announcement was met with glum silence. Draco glanced back to Pansy, who rolled her eyes and whispered,“They're going to stick me with a fucking Hufflepuff, I fucking know it.”

“Your partners have been selected randomly,” Slughorn continued, refusing to acknowledge that no one was excited about his sad attempt at creating house unity, “Except for you, Harry. As the only student who successfully created this afternoon's potion, you have the prize of picking anyone you want as your partner, regardless of their house.”

Draco rolled his eyes in annoyance, aggressively smashing his beetles into a powder with the back of spoon. The Dark Lord had specifically sought Draco out, he’d practically been groomed for this exact moment in his life, yet here Draco sat, grinding beetles and mashing frog eyes. It was ironic, really, how drastically his life had changed — before, The Dark Lord had swept past Draco's kneeling form with little regard. But now? Now, Draco Malfoy was a secret weapon. (A secret weapon who couldn’t brew a simple bloody potion, but a secret weapon none the less!) He was important. He was needed. He was terrified of the darkness that surrounded him, but it had been so long since Draco Malfoy had even seen the light, that he barley noticed anymore.

Slughorns childish voice began to call out partnered students, his enthusiasm meeting a rather cold silence. Perhaps it was the past solider-like regime Snape had instilled in them with anything concerning potions, or perhaps it was simply because the students disliked him, but Slughorn was fighting an uphill battle, one he’d inevitably lose.

The afternoon sun was dwindling, there were only a few more names on the list when it happened: Slughorn cleared his throat and called into the echoing dungeon, "Draco Malfoy shall be partnered with Hermione Granger! They must create a potion that resembles the elixir of life!"

At the sound of her name, Hermione's eyes jerked up in adamant horror and met Malfoy's at once, the pair of them squinting in annoyed bewilderment at each other from across the dungeon. "Oh no," Hermione muttered to herself as she pushed herself up from behind the desk, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach, "this _can't_ be happening." Unfortunately for **everyone** involved, it was. Malfoy was dealing with similar feelings of displeasure as he watched Granger make her way towards him, her arms perched firmly on her hips. In the grand scheme of things, being partnered with a Mudblood wasn't the worst thing that could've happened to Draco Malfoy (He could've been eaten by the giant squid in the lake, or perhaps Professor McGonagall could've forced him to participate in a hugging contest with a Hippogriff) but it pretty fucking high on the list. If it had been any other Mudblood in the entire school, Draco could've dealt with it with the poise and grace only a Malfoy possessed (i.e. being a dick) but this was Hermione Granger, his insults had never seemed to affect her, no matter how hard he tried.

"I suppose this was your doing." Malfoy spoke as a greeting once Granger reached his table, her usually bright face twisted into a frown, "Found yet another way to torture me to death with your Mudblood activism and your Gryffindor pride?" As he spoke, Hermione rolled her eyes, only causing to infuriate Malfoy further — this, Hermione was not aware of, but if she was, it only please her. The dungeon around them was softly buzzing with several conversations as their classmates made awkward smalltalk, attempting (but gravely failing) to ignore the pairs conversation.

"Oh, please." Hermione grumbled, mentally making a list of all the ways she could get out of her current situation (Feigning death was too high up on the list for her liking) "Like _I _would willingly manipulate a situation to spend more time with **you**." As she spoke, Hermione's eyes narrowed in suspicion as she glared up at him. Draco Malfoy, like most people, was taller than Hermione — but he was infuriatingly tall. _Too_ tall. "Did **you** do this? Is this another one of your dumb plans? What are you going to do, Malfoy? Insult me to death?" She snorted at her own joke, crossing her arms across her chest. It was a strange moment in both of their lives: here they stood, on the cusp of adulthood, taunting each other with playground insults. The watercolor paintings of their childhood had long dried and the time to grow up was arriving too quickly; but as the world changed around them, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy could cling to one constant — they'd always have the other to blame.

"If I ever show signs of wanting to spend excessive time around _you_, please alert the Hospital Wing," Draco sneered, "Tell ol' Poppy that I've been cursed and by some cruel twist of fate, the side effects include fraternizing with the enemy."

"Don't call teachers by their first name, it's unprofessional." Hermione protested as she reluctantly filled the seat across from his at their new potions station and began to sulkily stack her potions textbooks on the worn wooden surface. The pair feel into an uneasy silence, Hermione obviously attempting to hide herself behind an enormous stack of books, and Malfoy glaring holes into said stack of books.

"What about Hagrid?" Malfoy snapped after what seemed to be a blissful eternity of silence (realistically it had been 56 seconds), "You and all the other Potter sympathizers _love_ to spend time with that offish buffoon, but we **all **call him by his first name, which is Hagrid." Draco paused, triumphantly leaning back in his seat, "Don't try to hide, Granger. You know I'm right."

"Hagrid is his last name." Hermione spoke from behind her teetering pile of books, "You should talk less."

"You can't be serious." Draco grumbled, glancing around the dungeon in disgust. His other classmates seemed to be getting along impossibly well with their partners, even Pansy seemed intrigued by Luna Lovegoods ramblings — no doubt their potion would be a legitimate fire hazard. Zabini was already hard at work at wooing one of the Patil twins, and Theo had somehow convinced his partner (some willing Hufflepuff) to help him with his charms essay, the two of them scribbling a way in the corner. "And I get stuck with the filthy Mudblood." Draco sighed.

"Don't call her that."

Any sign of their previous argument had vanished as Harry placed a protective hand on her shoulder, stepping forward slightly to be in line with Hermione. “Fuck off Malfoy.” Harry spoke so softly it was even hard for Hermione to hear and her left side was practically smashed against his ribcage. Although Harry had been submerged in the wizarding world for six years, his go to defense mechanism was still to clench his fist in anticipation of a fist fight — it happened often enough that Hermione typically would tap the wand in his left back pocket. It was a gentle reminder to say: **we have magical abilities, idio**t. If Harry wasn't careful, the next time he fought Voldemort he might impulsively punch him in the face.

“I’m sorry, but are you my partner as well? Is this a packaged deal?” Malfoy asked in a clipped tone, his upper lip curling into a sneer, “I’d hate to spend time with either of you separately, but together? I just might convince Weasley to be our partner as well, get the complete experience.” Three sets of eyes found Ron in the crowd, who was slouched wordlessly next to Luna Lovegood, his eyes closed in evident slumber.

“Hermione is _my_ partner. Slughorn said I could pick anyone I wanted—” At this point in the conversation, Harry was carefully rolling up the sleeves of his robes, as if he was a member of some underground fight club that catered to tall, skinny boys with anger issues, “And I picked her.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Hermione finally snapped, “Obviously, I am repulsed by the idea of spending time with Malfoy,” She flashed a fake grin in Malfoy’s direction, “But am I understanding this correctly? You don’t think I could survive being his partner?” Thousands of thoughts were whizzing about Hermione’s head, her fingers were itching to tap angrily against something (she settled for her thigh) but mainly, she was firmly determined to take on the challenge at hand.

“I know you couldn’t.” Harry snapped in his ‘**I’m a very important person**’ voice that he only reserved for moments where he wanted to ensure he got his way, “You hate him more than anyone we’ve ever met. By the way, how is your insane aunt? Still batshit crazy? Does it run in the family?” Harry took a step closer to Malfoy, now officially planting himself in front of Hermione, “Is your mum next?”

As Hermione gagged at the sophomoric insults her best friend was tossing about, Malfoy evidently took Harry's jab to heart and promptly responded with, “At least I have parents.” 

"Alright, now you're just making basic observations," Hermione protested, pressing the heel of her hands firmly against her forehead, "You can't possibly be offended by that, could you Harry?" Perhaps it was the fact that Harry was yet again recklessly bending the rules to his will, or maybe it was the fact that he'd practically said he didn't believe her, but Hermione was annoyed. And when Hermione was annoyed, she usually stubbornly clung to whatever point she wanted to make, regardless of the doomed outcome. 

"Harry," Hermione grasped the edge of his sweater and yanked him closer to her, "Please stop attempting to fight my battles for me, you quite literally have too many of your own to face." He opened his mouth to protest, but Hermione sushed him by placing a finger over his mouth. What a strange picture to see, Harry grumpily leaning against the table, Hermione balancing on her tippy toes, pressing her finger to his lips. "I'll be fine." She said, smiling slightly up at him, "It'll be like it **always** is. Besides," She glanced back at Malfoy, who was deeply engrossed in examining his fingernails, "It's just Malfoy. How harmful can he actually be?'

It seemed like everyone was about to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! this is my first ever fan fiction on this site!!! i've been a long-time reader on here & i recently decided to take the plunge & post this!!! im going to try to tentatively set up an update schedule for every Sunday :)  
ps this is set in the 6th year which (according to the books) is advanced potions, so thats why theres so many different house members in one class! leave a review if u wanna :) 
> 
> follow me on twitter! yikes_t_m! i don’t know how to link it i’m just a whee baby


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione whirled around, finding the pair of eyes belonged to a specific someone at the Slytherin table.
> 
> Of course. How silly of her to forget that if he wasn't within speaking distance, Malfoy always found other ways to project his immense disdain towards her. It was strange that she knew that about him, like she knew so many other things about him — how he’d crack his neck when he was trying to work out a difficult problem, or how he’d pinch the bridge of his nose when he was annoyed, or how he’d always find a way to stare at her from across the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone!!!! i totally lied when i said i was going to do weekly updates. i TRIED and i FAILED. but like kermit the frog, i will press forward and attempt to gather the gaggle of ragtag goofballs & whip them into performance shape! (in this scenario i am kermit & the rest of the muppets (and their supreme lack of work ethic) are MY lack of work ethic! a fun cross-genre refrence!)

The following morning found Hermione in a world of trouble, making her ultimate goal of the ** _stress-free sixth year _ ** seem like a figment of a child's imagination. She was already under enough pressure, with their futures looming ahead of them, the possibility of the second Wizarding War practically beating down the front door, and now, her final potions grade rested in the hands of someone who **hated** her. Never in her life had Hermione worried about her education — school was her safe haven, the halls of Hogwarts had always been a place of refuge, but now? Now she’d willingly stomped into a working relationship with someone who physically had to refrain from vomiting in her presence and she really had no one to blame but herself. (Which is always the worst position to be in!)

No, as Hermione stomped down the staircase, her thoughts were far from_ stress-free. _

_ “Maybe we can use this to our advantage.” Harry had said last night, as he paced a very small marathon in front of the common room fire, “You could find out what Malfoy is hiding.” _

_ “He’s not hiding anything!” Hermione had protested, without looking up from the book she was levitating in front of her eyes, “There is no _ ** _way_ ** _ Malfoy would take the Dark Mark and then pretend like nothing had changed. If he’d taken the mark — which he hasn’t — he’d be shouting it from the rooftops.” _

_ “Shouting it from the rooftops?” Ron asked, intently playing a game of Wizards Chess with himself (no one was currently winning) “Like he’d climb to the top of the castle and yell about it? I guess that’s smart, no one would hear him over the wind — “ _

_“Muggle expression,” Harry and Hermione said in eusion, neither of the two bothering to explain it any further. Ron shrugged, neatly filling that saying under a tab in his brain named _**_LITERALLY_** **_EVERYTHING ABOUT MUGGLES CONFUSES ME _**_(ex: When muggles were sick they had to leave the house? And get in a car (????) and drive to another _**_location_**_, where someone told them that yup, yes, uhuh, they were indeed sick? Weren’t Doctors people that cut muggles up? Everything was confusing!) and went back to playing chess. _

_ “Malfoy is up to something.” Harry whispered, his hair falling before his eyes as, “I can feel it.” _

_ “Oh. So you’re spiritually connected to him now?” Hermione snapped, “That is _ ** _very_ ** _ helpful, I do wish you had brought that bit of information up earlier — ” _

_ “Stop defending a Magical Racist, Hermione — ” _

_ “I am _ ** _NOT_ ** _ defending a Magical Racist, nor am I defending his Magical Racism, as you so humbly put it, Harry, stop being an idiot — ” _

_ “Can you both just shut up?” Ron grumbled, sighting their argument for the reason his chess game was going up in figurative flames, “You’re giving me a headache. Malfoy’s a wanker, everyone agrees. Debate settled.” _

_ Casting a weary look around them, Harry had cast another _ ** _Muffliato _ ** _ charm towards the rest of the common room, the conversations of their classmates muffling even further. “Dumbledore showed me another memory about Voldemort...” And quickly their conversation had changed, but not without Hermione feeling that their previous argument wasn’t over. _

And like most of Hermione Granger’s feelings, she was right.

By the time she’d made it down to the Great Hall for breakfast, Hermione was intent on convincing Harry that it was perfectly safe for her to be Draco Malfoy’s potions partner — he wasn't a raging lunatic with a magical tattoo of _ darkness _ on his arm, he was simply a smug bully with too many negative opinions. Malfoy wasn’t anything special, Hermione decided, his face was too pointy. No one important had pointy faces.

As she made her way through the room, weaving throughout the sea of tables and familiar faces, she felt a pair of two eyes fixed on the back of her head. Shivering slightly, Hermione whispered, “** _Depulso_ **,” hoping the charm would banish whatever lingering spirit was loitering about, glaring at the curls at the back of her head. When the spell showed no signs of working, Hermione whirled around, finding the pair of eyes belonged to a specific someone at the Slytherin table.

_ Of course. _ How silly of her to forget that if he wasn't within speaking distance, Malfoy always found other ways to project his immense disdain towards her. It was strange that she knew that about him, like she knew so many other things about him — how he’d crack his neck when he was trying to work out a difficult problem, or how he’d pinch the bridge of his nose when he was annoyed, or how he’d _ always _ find a way to stare at her from across the room.

Unwilling to spend her entire morning standing in the Great Hall’s entryway contemplating her peculiar relationship with the school bully, Hermione continued her march to The Gryffindor table, making sure to sit with her back placed firmly to Malfoy’s glares. “Hello,” She said a bit too cheerily, reaching for the coffee pot, “How is everyone?”

“Mornin’,” Harry grumbled from over his tea cup, his eyes unflinchingly fixed on The Slytherin table across the hall. Ron hummed a greeting as well, but he was quite _ literally _ snogging Lavender to death, their small grunts of pleasure causing Ginny to look up from _ The Daily Prophet _ in disgust. 

“Ronald, perhaps you and Lavender could do your extensive foreplay someplace else?” Ginny asked in a way that was eerily familiar to her mother, “Just off the top of my head, you could use the school dungeons, or that abandoned bathroom with a rusty tub. Or literally anywhere other than _ in front of me _.”

Ron briefly resurfaced to shoot his sister a withering glance, “No one else seems to _ mind _ , Gin.” Others certainly minded, but Hermione wasn't _ truly _ one of them — her almost painful crush on Ron had dissolved over last summer at Grimmauld Place; without Harry as a buffer, Ron’s incessant need to compare every Quidditch team on the planet gave Hermione headaches, and Hermione’s impromptu lectures about literally anything gave Ron an overwhelming and quite frankly, unavoidable, urge to fall asleep. So, when Ron had introduced Lavender to Harry and Hermione (in a way that seemed Ron was pretending that the four of them hadn’t literally grown up together. He had been like, “Oh, do you guys know Lavender?” As if she didn't sleep in the bed across from Hermione, and like she hadn’t been Harry’s Charms partner for the past SIX years) they both had been happy for him.

“I mind,” Neville said from beside Ginny, “I really mind. You keep putting your elbow in my porridge, and I’m sitting across from you.” He met Hermione amused eyes and smiled back, “I’m starting to think he’s doing it on purpose.” He whispered.

“None of them are your _ siblings _ !” Ginny hissed over Neville’s complaints, knocking his bowl of porridge off the table all together, “Do you know how disgusting this is? How would you feel if I started snogging Harry?” Ginny and Harry hadn't necessarily spoken about what was going on between them (It was just a lot of prolonged staring, really) and it seemed Ron was _ certainly _ not ready to discuss whatever... **it**..was.

“I’d like to see you try!” Ron sputtered angrily, beginning to disentangle himself from Lavender’s clutches, preparing himself for an argument that involved the full range of mobility his limbs had to offer, “I’d have to kill him!” 

“Is that a _threat_?” Ginny retorted in a mocking voice, “The last person who tried to kill Harry was _You-Fucking-Know-Who!_ You think you could do a better job?” At the casual mention of Voldemort other members of their dining table looked up from their breakfast in bewilderment. Breakfast conversations often consist of sleepy chatter in between bites of eggs or jittery words exchanged over sips of coffee — people don’t really discuss mass murders first thing in the morning (on the rare occasion that magical **hitlers** _are_ the topic of the fun hip convo, it’s usually done with hushed tones or polite whispers). 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit too _ early _ to mention You-Know-Who?” Neville asked miserably as he ladled himself a second portion of porridge, his eyes fixed on the broken remains of his first attempt that now lay shattered on the floor.

“Well, if You-Know-Who was snogging my bloody sister, yeah I’d probably be able to take him out!” Their argument quickly dissolved into sibling bickering, causing a bloom of unfamiliarity to take place in Hermione’s chest. She’d always considered herself a _ proud _ only-child, someone who needed no one else to entertain her, but it was times like these, when Ron and Ginny so easily fell into their roles of siblings, where she felt left out. 

But, as their world grew darker, and Hermione began to withdraw further and further from her parents lives, she was glad there wasn't yet _ another _ person she’d have to hurt.

Her eyes met Harry’s from across the table, as if he was almost sensing her inner turmoil. Smiling slightly, Hermione began to busy herself with her schoolwork until Harry snapped her out of her casual perusing of their afternoon schedule. “Look at Malfoy,” Harry sneered, in a way that was entirely uncomfortable for everyone within hearing distance, “He looks like he’s dying.”

At Harry’s mention, Hermione chanced a glance over her shoulder at Malfoy, and felt her resolve crumble a bit. He _ did _ look tired, with dark smudges marring his normally porcelain under eyes, and a slightly hollowed look in his eyes. Malfoy was always put together, always infuriatingly handsome with his high cheekbones and silky hair — and he still looked fine, just a little rumpled.

“So?” She snapped, “He always looks like that.”

“No he doesn't.” Lavender said, in between kissing Ron (Who was still half heartedly arguing with Ginny), “He usually wears his hair slicked back like a model for those fancy robe designers,” She paused, squinting slightly across the hall, “And he hasn't worn that turtleneck in _ ages _, so something is definitely up.” 

“You’re right,” Ginny agreed, also squinting across the hall, “I think the last time he wore that shirt he was in mourning over getting ranked second to Hermione in Charms class.” There they sat in a row, Ginny, Harry, and Lavender, all squinting across the hall at Draco Malfoy and his choice of clothing. Heaving a sigh, Hermione twisted around once again, joining the onesided (Or in this case, foursided) staring contest, finding herself feel slightly bad for him once again.

“He _ is _ evil,” She grumbled, as she watched him stare angrily out the window, the rain splattering againts the glass reflecting on his face, “But in that call-you-bad-names sort of way, not the murder-your-entire-family type — “

“Yeah, that types reserved special for Harry.” Ron snorted, reaching across the table and nicking Neville's second attempt at porridge in a _ very _ un-stealthy manner. He was munching happily when he noticed everyone else bewildered stares, “What?” Ron said weakly, “We’re not allowed to joke about that yet?”

“I think he looks tired,” Lavender murmured aloud, “Maybe he got back together with Pansy Parkinson, I heard they broke up when he realized she was in a long distance relationship with someone in America. I think they lived somewhere very specific, like _ Kentucky _ . Maybe they’re in a three-way couple! I know they can be very exhausting — ” Lavender hesitated, seeming to notice how intently Ron was clinging to her words. “Not that I would know what being in a three-way couple requires — ” Lavender hastily added in a way that suggested she definitely _ had _ been in a three-way couple, but now was trying to sound like someone who only knew a safe and casual amount about three-way couples, “because I have **never** been in one and I would like to stop talking about this _ right now _ —”

“Isn’t that called a throuple?” Neville interrupted sullenly as he ate his third and final bowl of porridge in a way that seemed a bit excessively protective for something as mundane as breakfast.

“How could any of this possibly be relevant?” Hermione asked in exasperation, at the same time as Ron said, “Why do you know so much about Malfoy?”

“Oh, what? I can’t notice very specific details about other people?” Lavender argued, sounding a bit relieved that Ron had decided to focus on the far less stressful part of her earlier ramblings, “Just because I have his class schedule _ memorized _, I’m Draco Malfoy’s stalker?” She paused, “For legal reasons, that’s a joke.”

The two began to argue, their once hushed argument quickly climbing in volume, and ultimately resulting in Lavender fleeing the Great Hall in a huff, Ginny sulking after her, casting a longing look at Harry (who was paying too much attention to Draco to notice) and leaving Ron to angrily eat the remains of both of their french toast. 

“I just think he looks sad.” Hermione said, her pesky determination to see the silver lining in every situation rearing its head, “He probably is just upset about something.” Deep down, she knew something was off — but she was _ certainly _ not going to let anyone else know that. If Harry found out she was having any sort of doubts, he’d use that exact moment as the happy memory to produce a patronus for the next thirty years. 

“Malfoy?” Harry snorted, a smile spreading across his face for the first time that morning, “Experiencing a genuine emotions? Have you lost your mind? — _ OW _!” He cradled his arm to his chest, still smiling, despite the fact that Hermione had whacked him with a book. “I was joking.”

“I am _ perfectly _ sane, thank you!” Hermione hissed from across the table, looking back and forth between her two friends, who seemed completely oblivious to her never-ending stress. Maybe if Harry hadn't insulted her mental capacity, Hermione would’ve let old things die in the past, but that wasn't the case. “If anyone is **losing their mind** , it’s _ you _! Following fake instructions from some magical book — ”

“Not this book thing again,” Ron groaned, in between bites of his leaning tower of leftover french toast, “I thought we all forgot about that.”

“We did _ NOT _ forget about that,” Hermione insisted, her fingers itching to poke both of them in the chest to further prove her point, “I’m bringing it back up! You two are acting like there is nothing wrong with what you are doing!”

“You only care because we’re finally better than you at something!” Harry replied snidely, folding his arms across his chest in a way that practically **screamed** , ‘ _ Hahah! Give up forever! I’ve won this argument’ _“I mean face it Mione’,” He continued, “You’re probably a little upset that you didn't grab that book for yourself.”

“_ FOR MYSELF _ ?” Hermione exploded, tumbling headfirst into the conversational trap Harry had laid before her, “Do you not know me at _ all _ ?” She was packing up her bag as she spoke, angrily stuffing whatever was within reach into her book bag, hoping she was lucky enough to grab only her belongings, (5 books, 1 schedule, 6 pencils, 3 pancakes? a bottle of hot sauce?) “I mean **HONESTLY, ** sometimes the two of you act like complete idiots!” And although what Hermione said _ was _ true, and she _ did _ feel halfway bad for saying it, she refused to let her anger be deferred by her pesky need to make all those around her happy.

“I’m joking — ” Harry said loudly over her annoyed prattling, “You _ do _remember what a joke is, right ‘Mione?” His green eyes scanning her face in a more critical way than Hermione was comfortable with. She clutched a book to her chest angrily, warding off his accusatory x-ray vision in the most flippant way possible. “Are you alright?” Harry asked softer than before, his eyebrows scrunched together in a way that they always did when he was worried, “You seem a bit off.”

“I’m fine.” Hermione snapped, in a voice that betrayed how not-fine she actually was, “It’s nothing.” She stuck a few more quills in her book bag before failing at not talking to the both of them. “It’s just this one thing,” Hermione said, ignoring the knowing look Ron and Harry exchanged. “You both are acting like nothing is wrong — **everything** is wrong. The war is _ coming _ ,” she ignored Ron’s over dramatic eye roll and pressed forward, “Dumbledore is giving Harry these super secret lessons every evening, Voldemot is _ back, _and now you have a book that is whispering secrets into your ears — ”

“It’s not whispering in my ear, there is nothing romantic happening — ” Harry grinned, a rare sight to see these days. “I promise you, if a potions book was whispering sweet nothings into my ear, I’d let you have it.” At her annoyed look Harry only shrugged, “I mean in this _ hypothetical _ situation where I have an enchanted book that is attempting to romance me, why am I the bad guy for wanting to give it to someone who would literally pay money to have a book as a boyfriend — ”

“You are unbelievable.” Hermione huffed, but even she couldn't hide the small smile that began to wind its way across her face. “I only worry because I **care** about you, _ both _ of you.”

“She didn’t say no,” Ron mumbled into his quickly diminishing breakfast, “About the book boyfriend.”

  
  


\- - - - - - - - - -

  
  
  


The morning rain was miserable. Everything seemed pointless. Draco’s toast was dry. Pansy was talking about something, but it sounded like she was far away, underwater maybe, her voice murky and soft, like she wasn’t even talking at all. He could see the way her eyes lit up as she spoke, her pointy red nails flashing in the shallow morning as she waved her hands about to emphasize the point she was making, but he wasn’t sure what she was saying. He wasn’t sure he cared. In the distance, Draco heard Theo laughing at something Pansy said — she was saying something funny. Draco forced out a cough that could somewhat _ pass _ as a laugh (it sounded more like a wheeze) to make it seem like he was listening, and not just staring intently at a crack in the Great Hall ceiling.

That seemed to be the wrong thing to do, maybe she wasn’t saying something funny — maybe she had stopped talking fifteen minutes ago. Who knew. Not Draco. Pansy punched his arm with _ far _ too much strength for someone who claimed that sex was their only workout. (Pansy Parkinson had to be lifting weights in secret candle lit sessions at three in the morning, or maybe she spent her free time hoisting rocks above her head down the lake like some Beater in the Dumstrang Quidditch team.)

“ — not even listening to me.” Pansy snapped, her voice slicing through the fog that surrounded his brain, “I am telling you the most important story of my life, and you’re daydreaming—”

_ Daydreaming _ . Draco _ wished _ he was daydreaming. 

“What is wrong with you.” Her voice was closer than before, like Pansy had somehow swam through the murky water and pushed through the surface. Blinking, Draco focused on her face for the first time that morning, his eyes scanning the concern that flitted across her dark eyes. It was easy for Draco to keep secrets, (having the Dark Lord slithering around ones house builds moral. It also teaches one to very quickly learn how to keep one's thoughts under lock and key) but it had always been difficult to keep secrets from Pansy — she knew everything about him, who he was, who he was going to be; his future was dark, but at least he would have Pansy Parkinson by his side in the darkness.

Pansy always looked perfect, not a hair out of place, makeup never smudged — always presenting the perfect picture, the finished masterpiece that betrayed nothing that went on underneath. Their friendship wove its way through Draco’s life like a warm summer breeze, always nipping at his heels whenever he tried to run away from her. She knew him, all parts (even the boring ones, like his left elbow) and even now, as Draco stared glumly down at probably the only person who seemed to notice he was drowning on solid ground, Draco let himself think he could lie to her.

“I’m fine.” Draco grumbled.

Things, were most certainly _ not _ fine. These were the most un-fine times of Draco’s life — everything was crashing down on his shoulders and the weight of it all was starting to seep all over his skin, dragging him down further into the darkness. (Just your average Tuesday morning feelings.)

“Did something happen last night?” Pansy asked in a low voice, “With Snape?” Draco watched as her eyelashes brushed her cheeks as she blinked, how she seemed more concerned for his current well being than anyone ever had — it was ironic, really. How close Pansy and him had gotten after they’d broken up; he’d told his mother in a rather straightforward letter, leaving out no bits of their past relationship. Pansy had sent a pair of her new lovers knickers to her family, as if that would explain everything. (Hint! It did not. Pansy’s mother had assumed the lacey scraps had been sent by her husband's secret lover, and it had caused an enormous fight to take place. Pansy enjoyed that.)

“No,” Draco heard himself say, “Nothing happened at all.”

  
  


_He’d been mid-argument with Blaise, about something stupid, like how many choclate frogs Theo could sucsesfully stick in his mouth ( 12 ½ ) when he’d felt it — this searing pain slithering its way up his arm. Gasping, he’d clutched his arm, turning away from his friends. Pain didn't belong with them. When Bellatrix had swept into his home one year earlier, leaving darkness and chaos in her wake, Draco had felt the change like rain washing across his skin. No one was safe. Drao made a choice without a second thought — he would be her protegee, her precious nephew, her _**_chosen_** **_one_**_. He would take everything she would give him, he would do more than what was expected of him — he would take the mark, so no one else would have to._

_ Theo would never know what it would feel like to be tortured to the ripped edges of his sanity, Blaise would never have to cast a killing curse, Pansy would never have to be held down as The Dark Lord branded her flesh; the three of them would be safe from the pain. _

_ Pain hadn’t always been a constant in Draco’s life, but it was undeniably part of his new life. _

_ Glancing down at his left arm, Draco felt his heart resting to a stop in his chest — The Dark Lord had summoned him. And his mark was dripping with blood. Blood that was pure, blood that had set Draco apart from everyone around him for his entire life ; it was all the same now, it didn’t seem to matter. Blood that pure was still blood on the floor. _

_ “It’s been bleeding like this since he called,” Draco had whispered, his lower lip trembling with the effort it took to speak. “We were summoned, and this happened.” _

“_ You must strengthen your mind,” Snape had hissed, pressing further into Draco's thoughts, flicking aside the weak mental walls that Draco had hastily attempted to erect, “Learn to block him out, or you will be the death of us all.” He loomed above where Draco sat in the chair, seeming to watch a single bead of sweat drip slowly down Draco’s arm, mixing with the blood that was pooling around his ivory wrist. _

_ “I am loyal to the Dark Lord,” Draco had protested weakly, hating how tears were slipping down his cheeks as he spoke, his words catching in his throat, “I have nothing to hide — ” _

_ “You are _ ** _lying_ ** _ .” Snape had snapped, his harsh voice echoing around the room, silencing his student. “Your body is rejecting the mark.” He prodded the angry skin with the tip of his wand, smiling cruelly at the wounded sound that echoed around the dungeon. _

_ "No it’s not,” Draco moaned, sounding too confident for someone whose body was obviously rejecting the mark, “It's just infected. I _ ** _wanted_ ** _ this, I _ ** _have_ ** _ to do this.” _

_ Snape swung forward, his nose almost brushing Draco’s, his eyes dark in the eerie lighting — if Draco hadn’t just been subjected to four straight hours of Occlumency training, he might of made a comment about how romantic their situation was. But he was too tired, too weak. Maybe tomorrow he could suggest a date, tonight he wanted to die. _

_ “Don’t lie. You didn’t want the mark.” Snape had said, his voice low with controlled anger, “If you had, your body would have accepted the brand.” His teacher had paused, an emotion Draco couldn’t quite place flickering across his eyes. “Prepare yourself, Draco. You are walking a dangerous path — with my help, we just might make it out of here alive. But you _ ** _have_ ** _ to listen to me. Strengthen your walls.” _

_ “A break,” Draco whispered, “I just need a moment. If I could just rest — ” _

_ “You can rest when The Dark Lord breeches your mind, discovers your weakness, and kills you.” Snape had hissed, “And if you die, I will follow. Death is all around us, Draco, but it won’t catch us, not yet.” The professor had slowly raised his wand, pointing it directly at Draco’s forehead. “Shut me out.” _

_ “Legilimens!” _

“Why does it seem like the entirety of the Gryffindor table is staring at you?” Blaise asked in a monotone voice, jerking Draco out of his thoughts. Glancing past Pansy and her (surprising, yet appreciated) never ending fountain of concern, he caught his friends eyes. Blaise looked up from reading the book that was levitating before his eyes and shrugged, sounding smug. “I’m sure it’s not me they’re interested in.”

Malfoy allowed himself a quick glance across the Hall to find that, yes, there were three pairs of eyes observing his every move. Weasley was eating an enormous amount of french toast, his glare as angry as it has always been. As a child, Draco had found himself flinching _ every so often _ under the glare Weasley seemed to constantly cast his way — but now, he knew there was nothing underneath. Countless times Weasley had let himself be outshone by a Half-Blood and a _ Mudblood _ — in Draco’s opinion, Weasleys glare has stopped being intimidating the moment after he’d watched him vomit slugs for two days. 

Next, his eyes flickered to Potter, who looked murderous. Had he done something to offend them? (Probably, but it had unfortunately been unintentional.) Precious Potter and his inability to see weakness in bravery, always sticking up for everyone, his smile casual and easy for all those around; yet he still found time in his busy **chosen one** schedule to glare at Draco from across a room. An honor, really. 

Finally his eyes found Grangers — she was watching him with curiosity, her gaze unwavering when their eyes met. She was looking at him like she had earlier that morning, no fear present in her eyes, almost looking bored, like she wasn't really looking at him at all. It was unnerving, how she always seemed to be three steps ahead of him at all times — and even now, as they entered his second staring match of the morning, he felt a hot burning running over his skin. **Annoyance** , that was what it was, **annoyance** at how Granger never seemed to know her place, and always seemed to know when he was at his weakest. He glowered at her for good measure before turning back to the conversation around him.

“Maybe Potter’s in love with you,” Theo said in, his mouth full of hash browns, “He’s always staring at you like he wants to fuck you.”

“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” Pansy murmured from over the rim her coffee cup, “Two enemies, locked in embrace, their bodies covered in sweat, their tongues battling for dominance—”

“Please never say anything like that again,” Draco said, feeling like he was beginning to wake up from the Occlumency induced dream. “Our tongues wouldn't _ battle _ for dominance,” He added in afterthought, “I’d be in charge—” 

“Oh, so you've thought about this?” Pansy asked, a coy smile twisting across her lips, her chin resting gently on her hands as she waited for him to tumble forward into her trap, dutifully named** PANSY’S PLAN TO MAKE DRACO ACT HIS AGE FOR LIKE ONE BLOODY MINUTE**, “Do you mind telling me every detail of your fantasy? Start at the beginning, please leave nothing out — ”

“I’ll let you figure that one out on your own, Pans.” Draco smirked as he packed up his belongings, ignoring his growling stomach. He needed to mediate before class, center his emotions and focus on _ nothing _, allow the coolness of an empty mind settle over his skin like a shadow. He watched his friends bright faces, their smiles blurring together as he shoved them down, behind the hidden walls of his mind.

In his haste to find a moment of silence, he didn't notice the concerned look that was passed between his friends, their fingers winding together under the wooden table in tight embraces. He didn't notice how Pansy leaned forward in his absence, hissing “_ Somethings wrong _,” and he definitely didn't notice a figure following behind in his shadows, slipping after him out of The Great Hall, through the courtyard, and into the cool morning.

His isolation was short lived. 

“We need to talk.” Hermione whispered, her breath tumbling forward into the icy air, “About potions.” She hastily added, seeing as this was the first time in the history of ever that she’d willingly sought out a conversation with Draco Malfoy that didn’t start with her saying “_ Actually, you’re quite wrong _” in a condescending voice, and she didn't want him to assume she was attempting to turn over a new leaf and propose friendship. All leaves would remain unturned, thank you very much.

Sighing heavily, Hermione slung her bag over her shoulder as she clambered on top of the stone wall he was perched on, and sat herself down (a good 32 inches between them). She could feel his eyes on her, but stubbornly refused to look up from her task at hand — retrieving her class schedule to pencil him in. “I’m free after four on mondays,” She murmured out loud, “but that would impede on my light reading time.”

“Why are you here?” Malfoy asked, his voice seeming to lack some of the usual disdain, “Shouldn't you be teaching Potter and Weasley how to properly breathe on their own?”

“Wicked insult Malfoy,” Hermione hummed, still not looking up at him, “You really stuck it to them with that one.” The rain had picked up since that morning, and the landscape that spread out in front of them was practically drowning before their eyes, everything attempting to stay afloat, and failing miserably.

Perhaps it was a metaphor for Hermione's current situation; perhaps, it was a metaphor for both of their situations— two sides of the same story often become one.

"I'd really prefer if you'd leave me alone," Draco heard himself say stiffly, mentally kicking himself for his unintentional politeness, "I don't want to be seen with you." He glanced down at her, sort of hating how determined she seemed to spend time with him, even if it was in academic context. Her planner was spread out on her lap, filled to the brim with the messy handwriting — she'd always written like she was running out of time, like the world would suddenly tilt of its axis if she didn't copy her notes _right_ as the lecture was leaving their professors mouth. 

Hermione snorted, the curls that had fallen infant of her eyes blowing softly upwards, "I don't care if you don't want to be _seen_ with me," she was making room for him on Thursday afternoons (not bothering to ask if he was free, the annoying swot) her quill scribbling furiously across the parchment.

Exhaling through his nose, Draco angrily pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, his frustration coursing through him, "Hate to break it to you, Granger, but I've got bigger problems than our stupid assignment," Draco sneered, feeling the ache of his left arm twisting across his skin, "Do the fucking project yourself."

"Oh!" Hermione gasped, clutching her schedule to her chest in mock surprise, still not _looking_ at him "I _would_ if I _could_, but the potion must contain both of our blood." She finally glanced in his direction, staring around his shoulders, her eyes narrowing in distaste at how much bigger he was than everyone else (very unfair advantage, she should wear stilts to their next argument) "Ironic, isn't it? The **elixir of life**." She frowned, her heels knocking against the stones they sat on as she swung her legs, lost in thought. "As if anyone would want to live _forever_ in times like these." Hermione stopped speaking, her breath catching in her throat. Death Eater or not, talking casually about **Voldemort** with_ Draco Fucking Malfoy _wasn't something Hermione wanted to ever do. At least, not now, when she wasn't prepared for the discussion — maybe if he gave her an hour in advance to put together an argument. 

Draco watched as a myriad of emotions flickered across her face; _she'd never survive becoming an Occlumens_, he thought to himself, surprised that he even spared her future a thought, _she let her emotions flow too freely, like a true, idiotic Gryffindor. _He hated Granger, he'd spent his entire childhood plotting ways to drag her down in to the mud — but right now, in the moment that surrounded them both, as he sat _too_ _close_ to someone he thought very little of, he found that he didn't want to talk about the future with _Hermione Fucking Granger_. It tasted wrong in his mouth, like he'd swallowed soap.

“Please get on with whatever you’re doing." He said softly, his left arm feeling heavy against his leg, his skin feeling too tight across his body, "I don’t make it a habit to spend my free time conversing with mudbloods, especially ones as bossy as yourself.” She looked up to find him staring at her face, almost as if he were waiting for the pain to flicker across the surface, as it so often had during their childhood. But things were different now, they were no longer children — practically adults, and dirty words no longer caused tears to well up in Hermione's eyes. Instead, she only stared back, squarely meeting his gaze with her own.

“Are you done?” she finally asked, her voice sounding stronger than she felt, “We have a potion to brew.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! :) hope you liked the chapter!! this ended up being way longer than i originally attended (like EVERYTHING i write) & if this is a hint at how the future chapters will go...yall better buckle up b/c this is gonna be a bona fide novel!! 🤧  
thanks so much for those who commented and left kudos!!!! every time i got an email form ao3 i was like....nobody talk 2 me...im famous..😳✌🏽but for real, it's so so so so cool that you guys are enjoying this fic! i enjoy writing it!  
see y'all soon :)
> 
> ps i made a twitter! it’s yikes_t_m :) i do not know how to link it because i am but a whee child


	3. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again hi sorry that it took me thirty seven years to update, i hate me too! i am also pretty unhappy with this chapter, so feel free to burn my village to ashes!

Hidden towards the back of the library, behind a groaning shelf of Charms textbooks, far beneath a brimming stack of books (Most of them Hermione’s), and copious crumpled attempts at essays ( Ron + Harry) sat the trio of _ idiots _, as Percy so snidely had nicknamed them in their second year. The air that hung between the three of them was tense, littered with unspoken words. Ron was annoyed that he had to spend an evening inside, Hermione was annoyed that her favorite table was occupied, Harry was annoyed that Voldemort was taking a rather unwanted vacation inside his head — an evenly distributed amount of stress.The library was brimming with students, the buzz of nervous conversations hanging in the air above everyone's heads like paper kites — and at the center of all the muted chaos, sat Hermione.

Who was bitter. 

(And really, no one was surprised)

Hermione **hated** a full library, people were generally _ terrible _ at following library etiquette; they talked loudly, they brought _ food _ with them (smearing the pages with their greasy little hands), they messily placed books back on the wrong shelves — and above all, they disrupted the pleasant environment of the room. Libraries were soft and quiet, filled the smell of old parchment and leather; there was no _ room _ for boisterous conversations about quidditch, zucchini soup, and everything in between. (Yet, her classmates seemed determined to find space for their conversations, their voices echoing through the halls. A truly _ wonderful _ moment for Hermione, who was currently considering committing casual amounts of arsen.) 

During their first year, Hermione had spent almost every night tucked behind the library doors, finding friends within the stories — she’d spent hours lost within the pages, quietly telling herself _ this _was all she needed. After all, a book can never be cruel, tug your hair or call you a bad name (unless the book was provoked) and it seemed like everyone around Hermione was intent to do just that. A whimsical world had been handed to her, overflowing with the endless promises of tomorrow — and everyone around her was determined to make her feel inferior, to prove that Hermione Granger didn’t belong.

Well, Hermione Granger _ did _ belong. 

As the years passed, and her friends became more than words on a page, Hermione still scurried to the library whenever she could, eager to stick her nose in any book within reach. The library had always been there for her, with books brimming with answers to all of her problems (okay, not really _ HER _ problems, a more accurate statement being : **HARRY POTTER’S PROBLEMS, HERMIONE WAS A WALKING THESAURUS AND RON WAS HAVING A GOOD TIME** ).This was _ her _ place, the books were safe in her hands, the tattered pages soothed by her respectful touch. She wasn't some crazed brat, stalking through the library halls, snatching books out of peoples clutches...Hermione just didn't do well with people invading her personal space (ex: the entire library, all of it, including the storage room that was filled with empty buckets) and like every other only child on the planet, Hermione found it _ hard _ to share. 

Currently, Hermione was slumped against a stack of books, glaring at her _ favorite _ table (occupied by a handful of careless Slytherines, loudly talking about something **dumb**, undoubtedly carving their initials into her prescious table) and feeling very sorry for herself.

October had arrived, and with it the first week of exams — and Hermione had to study at her second favorite table. No one, NO ONE, had it worse. (Maybe Harry, but Hermione was in a very, very close second.)

“I just don’t understand **why** we need to learn all this rubbish,” Ron moaned, knocking Hermione out of her bitter inner monologue, his forehead pressed against the wooden table, his voice muffled, “I don’t think I’ll ever need to know the proper function of the Mandrake Potion.” As he spoke, his third (and apparently, final) attempt at his essay burst into flames, the warmth of the magical tickling Hermione’s hand.

“Cheer up, Ron,” Harry said from beneath the mountain of books he’d managed to weasel from the Restricted Section, “You can always be a tester at your brothers joke shop — _ ow _ .” He grumbled, rubbing the sore spot where Ron had blindly punched him. “For The Chosen One, I get hit _ way _ more than I should.”

“Maybe you should be hit _ more _ ,” Ron grumbled, still pressing his forehead into the wood, apparently _ he _ was alright with their current table situation, “It helps build character.”

“I agree, “ Hermione hummed, still glaring at the Slytehrins who had effortlessly invaded _ her _ happy place, and left Hermione to sit stubbornly in the burning ashes of her precious life, “You definitely should be hit more. Maybe you’d wake up from your concussion with some common sense.” To her left, Ron grunted happily into the wood, glad to have Hermione on his side for once. If he had his way, the two of them would form a **HIT HARRY WHENEVER HE IS BEING A LITTLE SHIT** taskforce. They’d work on weekends and most Holidays, sick days would be allowed, but frowned upon. 

“Thanks,” Harry said softly, his voice laced with feigned annoyance, “Remind me to find new friends.” His eyes found the back of Malfoy’s head, narrowing in distaste, apparently itching to start up his favorite pastime of recent weeks : _ glare at Draco Malfoy until everyone around them grew uncomfortable and moved away, giving the two of them so well-deserved alone time. _

“Good fuckin’ luck, mate,” Ron said, finally prying himself off the table, resting his head on the backs of his freckled hands, “I don’t think anyone would touch you with a ten foot pole.” At Hermione’s horrified look Ron rolled his eyes, “Yeah like anyone else wants to go trapezing into the Forbidden Forest at midnight to tackle _ giant _ spiders, or fucking duel _ Death Eaters _ in very creepy parts of the Ministry — _ we _ don’t even want to do that. But we do. Because we all sat in the same train compartment six years ago.”

“Shut up, Ron.” Hermione scoffed, her gaze _now_ focused on Harry — who looked crestfallen, like he’d finally realized how **truly** _awful_ it must be to be his friend. “We like you for many more reasons than our past seating arrangements — ” Reaching across the table, she traced Harry’s fingers with her own, smiling softly, “I for one _know_ Ron enjoys the free things.”

“The free things are the best part,” Ron moaned, letting his head fall back on the rim of his chair with a dull thud, “If Chocolate Frogs Inc. hadn’t sent me that life supply after the Ministry break in last year, I would have given up on this friendship completely.” His grin was crooked, somehow oblivious to how sullen Harry had become.

“You know we’re joking,” Hermione cautioned, “I like you, even when you’re stubborn.” She kicked Ron under the table. _SAY SOMETHING NICE _Hermione mouthed. **_I ALREADY DID_**! Ron mouthed back, rubbing his shin, looking horrified. _THE CHOCOLATE FROG THING WAS NOT NICE! SAY SOMETHING ABOUT HIS PERSONALITY _Hermione mouthed, deeply aware of the fact that Harry had noticed their silent conversation. **_I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU SAID_** — “This is dumb, I’m bad at reading lips.” Ron grumbled.

That made Harry laugh, but only for a bit, the joy hardly reaching his eyes.

The weight Harry carried seemed to be finding its way to both Hermione and Ron’s shoulders, all three of them sporting dark circles under their eyes, their mouths bitter with the taste of worry. Everything around them was changing, it seemed. Hermione had noticed, although she wished she hadn’t; life at Hogwarts had always been pleasant, with adventures dripping between the cracks of reality — but now it seemed like the whimsical beliefs she held as a child, didn’t quite belong within the cold walls of the castle anymore. 

Change had arrived with the early October snow, trudging towards the three of them slowly, like a friend who was begrudgingly determined to make you late to an important appointment. 

“How are you doing with your Potions project?” Harry asked, his voice interrupting Hermione’s dreary thoughts of the past and future and everything in between.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at her friend, hating how much joy he was squeezing out of the miserable partnership she’d stubbornly found herself within. “We’re meeting for the first time tonight, thank you. The project will be fantastic and it will not have _any_ _type_ of illegal magical aid.”

“Hasn’t he been absent?” Ron said, looking disgusted at the fact that he’d even noticed _ anything _ to do with Malfoy, “I only noticed he wasn't in class because I make a game of throwing things at the back of his head." Ron hastily added. "I heard he’s dying from Gillyweed Pocks —”

“You can’t die from Gillyweed Pocks, don’t be stupid, Ronald — ”

“My cousin knew someone who _ did _ die." Ron argued back, intent on lecturing everyone about his extensive families lineage and their apparent troubles with Gillyweed Pocks, "Also, before he _ died _, he got all funny in the head as a side effect and ended up marrying his pet goose on accident — ”

“That can’t _ possibly _ be true — ”

“Are you _ enjoying _ spending time with Malfoy?” Harry loudly interrupted, smiling in the sort of way that said — hi, I’m very much in control of this situation, for I am a towering Christmas tree and you are a small, humble goblin. 

“No one _ enjoys _ spending time with Malfoy,” Hermione snapped back, ignoring the original part of his question, “Name ** _one_ ** person who _ enjoys _ spending time with Malfoy.” She began scribbling at the essay she’d finished thirty minutes ago, retracing the letters with the edge of her quill. “Don’t say Pansy Parkinson —”

“Pansy Parkinson.” Ron said through a mouthful of soup crackers that he’d smuggled into the Library in his pocket, “She's been in love with him since the _ beginning _ of _ time _,” He flung his arm across his head in an over dramatic display of despair, sending crumbs flying through the air. “Don’t look put out ‘Mione, you know I’m right.”

“I’m not _put_ _out_,” Hermione exploded louder than she intended, her indignant voice bouncing off the walls, “I’ve never been put out by anything —”

“You can’t be **serious** , you get put out by _ everything _!” Ron crowed, his laughter ringing easily through the already noisy library, “Tell her Harry, tell her she’s the Queen of being put out.”

“You are the Queen.” Harry replied with zero hesitation, confirming Hermione's sneaking suspicion he’d planned the way their argument would go in his head (**HINT**! He had. Most arguments with Hermione Granger were planned a good 28 hours in advance). 

“If I ever am put out by anything — which I’m _ not _ , mind you — it’s completely understandable and the situation most likely called for it!” Hermione protested, now making a conscious effort to **not** be put out by anything, in fear that Ron would transfigure his Potions textbook into a crown. (“ _ The Queen of being put out _ !” Ron would crow, mimicking a trumpet with his fingers, “ _ All hail her snooty highness _!”) 

“Ron’s right too,” Harry continued, like Hermione hadn’t said anything at all — “Pansy Parkinson is the _ poster child _ for being in love with someone who doesn’t love her back.” He smiled, a familiar glint of happiness in his eyes (and Hermione decided right _ then _ and _ there _ that despite how disappointingly **annoying** Harry was, she would do _ anything _ to keep his halfhearted happiness afloat) “Hasn’t stopped her from trying to suck Malfoys stomach out of his mouth since our second year — ”

“_ Please _ stop talking,” Hermione cut him off, hating the blush that was rising in her cheeks — it was because it was hot inside the library, because so many people were crammed inside one room, _ not _ because Harry was talking about Pansy Parkinson and her sexual companions — “I am very sure that Pansy Parkinson would _ die _ if she knew the three of us were talking about her sucking abilities — ”

“I am not talking about Pansy Fuckin’ Parkinson’s sucking abilities!” Ron said indignantly, still chewing his crackers, “Because I am a fantastic boyfriend and I don’t need to think about anyone other than my girlfriend — Lav does this weird thing with her tongue? Like she’s trying to reach the back of my throat?” Neither Hermione or Harry responded, both of their noses wrinkled in twin looks of disgust, “Bet Pansy Parkinson couldn't reach my _ uvula _— ”

“Oh this is a fun conversation,” Lavender gushed, picking the exact wrong moment to slide into the vacant chair to Ron’s right, giving him a quick kiss hello that only lasted a minute and a half, “Are you three talking about Pansy and her new girlfriend? She’s from Ravenclaw —” Lavender paused, yanking a crumpled piece of paper out of her bag that had _ CLEARLY _ been ripped from a textbook, and began reading aloud the messily scrawled notes, “Pureblood, Seventh Year, her name is either Bianca or Basel — I for one hope it’s Basel, that would be a fun, funky, new name — she’s very neutral on politics _ and _, AND! She’s an Aries.” 

If Lavender was aware of the silencing effect she had on a trio of people who were constantly bickering, she showed no signs of acknowledgement. Reaching across the table, Lavender took Harry’s hand in her own, smiling kindly at his bewilderment. “Leos and Aries are _ very _ compatible,” she spoke, like her word meant law and everyone around her was destined to become a strict, law abiding citizen, “I hope you and Basel become very good friends.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, weakly tugging his hand out of her grip, “I’ll be sure to go out of my way to start a relationship with the girl whose name _ might _ be Basel, who, by the way, is dating _ Pansy Fuckin’ Parkinson _ of all people. She’s not exactly my biggest fan, can’t help but think that Basel would feel any differently.”

“But at least the two of you are _ compatible _ ,” Hermione murmured, returning to her mountain of books, “Keep that in mind for when you steal her away from Pansy.” Ron snorted, before he and Lavender returned to their **very** dedicated attempts to reach each other's uvulas.

“I wouldn't _ steal _ her away,” Harry protested, tearing his gaze away from Ron and Lavender’s undulations, “I’d ask Basel if she’d want to go to Hogsmead with me, maybe we’d laugh over shared trauma! I’d be very respectful, but who knows where the evening would take us — “

“The evening would take Basel back to Pansy’s waiting arms,” Hermione cut Harry off in an exaggerated stage whisper, “_ Something _ tells me Basel-Bianca would be more compatible with the girl she’s already dating, who by the way, is _ also _ a Leo.”

“_ No _ , she isn't,” Harry protested, “We were partnered in Divention once, I’m like ninety percent sure Pansy Parkinson is a Virgo.” He crossed his arms firmly across his chest, meeting Hermione’s narrowed gaze with his own unwavering one. “Bet you didn’t think I payed attention in that class — which I don't, but I _ do _ happen to remember this one thing —”

“_ No _ ,” Hermione snapped back, “ **I** was your partner in Divention, _ I’m _ a Virgo! Pansy Parkinson is a Leo, just look at her, she practically exudes Leo-ness!”

Four pairs of eyes snapped to Hermione’s beloved table, where Pansy Parkinson currently sat. Unfortunately, she did not have a giant, flashing, neon sign that said ** _HERMIONE IS RIGHT! I AM IN FACT A LEO!_ ** Nor was she reading a book (like a good, law abiding library citizen was supposed to do!) Instead, she was looking back at their table, a narrowed look of disgusted confusion on her face.

“Why is she looking at us?” Harry wondered out loud, in the voice of a boy who was completely oblivious to everything that went on around him. As a Gryffindor, Harry was supposed to face every challenge with unwavering fear, boistering amounts of courage, and an allround, gung ho attitude about literally every dangerous situation — nowhere in that flowing list of courageous attributes were the requirements of: **ATTENTIVE** or **MUST PAY ATTENTION TO ANY DETAILS, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NOTICE WHAT IS HAPPENING AROUND YOU!**

Along with being a very smart idiot, Harry was also a person, a very _ tired _ person, who, according to The Daily Prophet, was: “ _ Going through a lot right now! _ ” Fighting with Pansy Parkinson wasn't exactly his top priority (if Harry was being honest, it wasn't even on his list) so instead of doing something _ truly _ productive, something that aid the situation they were all in, Harry simply smiled, his feigned cheerfulness rivialing one of a tired popstar three hours into their seven hour meet and greet. 

“She’s probably still _ looking _ at us because you bloody smiled at her! Stop smiling at her. She’s going to jump you in the hallway. Oh..” Hermione felt the hot rush of embarrassment flood her cheeks as she watched Pansy casually lean across the table (her table) to whisper in Malfoy’s ear and then suddenly, like it was a terrible scene from a horrific nightmare, both Slytherin’s turned and looked right back at Hermione. 

Who waved.

They continued to stare.

Hermione continued to wave. 

(Was this her life now? Destined to wave at individuals who viewed her as inferior? Was she to be locked in this semi-intimate stare off for the rest of time?) 

“Pansy is going to _ jump _ you?” Lavender gushed, prying herself out of Ron’s vice-like grip, and knocking Hermione out of her trance-like state of waving at two people who would throw an actual _ party _ if she died, “Are the two of you having _ scandalous _ hallway rendezvous? I didn’t even think of you being in a romantic relationship! That was literally the furthest thing from my mind!”

It was Harry’s turn to be put out. “The furthest thing from your mind? Hate to break it to you, Lav, but I _ am _ the Chosen One — ”

“Maybe the three of you could all get together?” Lavender continued, dragging Harry behind her on an emotional rollercoaster, “I could ask Pansy if she’d be open to a third party, I _ think _ we’re friends —” Pansy was watching them still, her hands folded neatly underneath her chin, her red lips thinning into a predatory smile.

“Don’t!” Harry protested, his voice climbing a few octaves as Lavender began to get up, intent on setting him up to be part of a couple that didn’t exactly need a man, “Lav, that’s very kind, but I’m fine. Tell her, ‘Mione.”

“He’s very lonely.” Hermione said matter of factly, “All he does is stare broodingly out the window.”

“When he’s not hanging out with the two of us,” Ron chimed in, “He’s spending quality time with Professor Dumbledor, which is a totally normal thing to do. Everyone knows that the headmaster of your school should be a close, personal friend.”

“They go on special field trips together.” Hermione supplied helpfully, her smile simply refusing to be hidden, “As one does with every looming authoritative figure in their lives.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever talked to Dumbledor,” Lavender mused, threading her fingers through her hair in a thoughtful sort of way, “I wonder if he even knows who I am.” She looked up at the trio that shared her table and smiled softly, if only in a self deprecating way, “I’m sure he knows exactly who the three of you are.”

Hermione glanced up, meeting the other girl's eyes. Lavender was sweet, her laugh loud, her skin clear — she’d developed breasts of exactly the right size at exactly the right age, (something Hermione had always envied) she always seemed to know the right thing to say, but most of all, Lavender was _ lovable _. She was easy to like. People didn’t grow weary when they spoke to Lavender, they didn’t roll their eyes when she knew the answer to a question in class. She was a kindhearted dream, wrapped in the perfect pureblood packaging — it didn't quite seem fair that someone as likeable and funny and perfected breasted as Lavender would ever feel out of place.

Hermione offered a tentative smile. _ I know what it’s like _ her smile said. It’s easy to feel insignificant in a world where Harry Potter exists, no matter who you are. 

“Don’t worry, Lav,” Ron murmured against the crown of his girlfriend's head, blissfully oblivious to the one-sided bonding moment that Hermione had been going through, “One day, we’ll all be on Chocolate Frog Cards. Then, everyone will know our names.”

The two dissolved back into their own world, whispering secrets into each other's ears, twisting their fingers together under the desk. It had always been simple for Ron to be happy — all he needed was someone to share a laugh with, someone to lean against when the nights grew cold. It wasn't a bad thing, nothing to be upset over; Ron was simply the type of person who felt at home wherever he went, and Hermione...wasn't. To her, life was a complicated, messy thing. It was the perfect painting that your cat walked across right as you finished, it’s spilled milk on the dining room table, dripping down to ruin the carpet below. Hermione spent her entire existence trying to see the deeper meaning of _ everything, _while Ron saw the world as it appeared, nothing more — when Hermione thought about it, she supposed Lavender saw the world that way too. 

_ “People see things exactly the way they want to.” _ Hermione’s mum had murmured into Hermione’s hair over the winter break of her second year, _ “How we see the world is the only thing we have that is completely our own.” _ She’d been crying over something stupid, a word she hadnt fully understood yet; trivial problems to the worries that now loomed before her. Her Mum would be gone soon — but Hermione was certain that _ whoever _ her mother became, she’d still see the world as Jean Granger had.

Glancing up from her own work, Hermione found Malfoy’s eyes from across the room, always staring from a distance. ** _I’m sure he sees exactly what he wants to._ ** Hermione thought to herself, allowing thirteen seconds of sulking about blood purists and their position in high society, before letting her mind wander back to pleasant thoughts of Ron and Lavender, and how they seemed to understand each other all the way down to the bones beneath their skin. She was being childish, allowing herself to be wrapped up in daydreams of her past that needed to remain firmly tucked away — there was no room for them in this changing world.

“Honestly though, how has Malfoy been?” Harry hummed, knocking Hermione from her own thoughts “Giving you any trouble?” his eyes were carefully fixed on his own homework, desperately attempting to appear nonchalant.

“Hm? Oh, yes, that. No he’s been fine.” Hermione said half heartedly, “We haven't met yet, but I am sure it will be fine.” She made a very concerted effort not to look up at the person they were talking about. (She allowed herself one (1) glance) “We're meeting this evening, it’ll be fine.”

“Yes, you’ve said it will be fine three times.” Harry mused, still not looking at her as they talked. “Do you think you could watch him for me?” He added, in a rather blunt way, that only Harry could pull off.

“You want me to _ spy _ on him?” Hermione said slowly, now blatantly staring over Harry’s shoulder at Draco Malfoy and his exceptionally sharp face, “Honestly Harry, don’t **you** stare at him enough?” She ignored her friend's sputterings of ‘I _ t’s for professional reasons only! _ ’ and _ ‘I look at every single person in the world the exact same amount!’ _ and pressed forward: “I find it hard to believe that me staring at him during our meeting will help you sus out if _ Draco Malfoy _ of all people, is morphing into a Dark Wizard — ”

“He _ is _ ,” Harry argued, “He took the mark over the summer, I know he did.” Hermione rolled her eyes, but Harry continued, The Patron Saint of ignoring peoples eyerolls, “He’s different now. In the way he walks, like he knows people are watching his every move, how he looks like he’s rotting from the inside out. Don’t look at me like that, even _ you _have noticed — ”

“I certainly have _ not _ noticed,” Hermione sputtered, “Have I casually _ observed _ the fact that he looks like he’s sleepwalking everywhere? Yes. But have I gone out of my way to track his every move? No, I’m afraid that’s been you.” She was hurling herself down a path of no return, one where she found herself actually _ defending _ him ; Draco Malfoy was cruel and vile, he always had been. Ever since they were children, he’d gone out of his way to show everyone how Wicked he was, desperately trying to live up to the Darkness of his family name. 

Because that was all it was, wasn’t it? A child, trying to prove that he was worthy? Even now, as Hermione mused and Harry waited patiently for her to stop musing, Draco looked like he was clinging to the last strings of hope. “He’s just a kid.” Hermione finally said, “Like the rest of us.”

He _ was _ just a kid, but he was a kid on the wrong side.

“Trust me.” Harry said, his voice softer than before. He was staring at Hermione intently, his brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a math problem in his head, “Just tell me if he does anything out of the ordinary.”

“Yes, alright.” Hermione grumbled, “But I still think you’re wrong about him.” 

“It’s pure shit that you got paired with someone who is actually decent at Potions.” Harry changed the subject, smiling softly at her from across the table, “My partner is fuckin’ Joseph Zibalo from Hufflepuff.” He paused, his eyes flickering to meet her own. “Good thing I’m a newly anointed potions prodigy. I’ll be able to carry the both of us across the finish line.”

“I hope Zibalo burns your eyebrows off.”

Harry grinned wide, “I’m sure you’ll convince him to do just that.”

\- - - - - -

In the past three days, Draco had considered tipping himself off the dock into the Great Lake at _ least _ thirteen times. With October came fresh snow, the lingering smell of pumpkin wafting from suspicious parts of the castle, and the sinking feeling of irreversible impending doom. Without the frivolous distractions of a life that was long gone, Draco was left alone with the sourness of his own thoughts and the lingering touches of his Aunt, burned harshly into his skin. There was nowhere for him to go, no one to turn to — now he only had those who would slice open his throat if they knew he was feeling any type of hesitancy towards the mission, the brand on his arm made sure of that. 

There were moments in Draco’s life where he’d felt free, unworried about the heaviness of the future, oblivious to the darkness that awaited him. Now, as he sat darkly in the library, watching everyone trapeze about, unknowing of the darkness of _ their _ futures, he let flashes of his memories wink before his eyes, watching the happiness he’d left behind play out before him.

When he’d first kissed Pansy, when Theo had invited him to France for the summer between their third and fourth year, how Blaise had visited a day after Draco had taken the mark, almost as if he’d known something was wrong without anyone telling him; they were a mess of light and laughter, blurry bits of a life that wasn't his anymore. They were all still with him, their shoulders brushing together in the cold air, their laughter cutting through the fog — but Draco was alone. It was how it had to be. 

There is bravery in doing what you're told. Draco knew how the rest of the world saw Death Eaters, devout followers who did whatever their Dark Lord commanded, spineless shadows of their former selves — the world saw no bravery in that. After all, bravery was saved for the _ good _ , for the courageous, for those who stumbled blindly into the darkness. Draco had never been exceptionally brave, never the first one to venture into the mist, but doing _ this _, taking the mark, saving his family’s name, saving all of his friends from a fate worse than death — that was brave.

His father had never been brave, never willingly walking towards a challenge, but Draco’s mother was. Narcissa was ice, beautiful and hard to break — when Draco had been chosen for his mission, his mother had pulled him aside, her perfect nails digging into the skin of his face. “_ Do what you have to do to survive _ .” She’d hissed, her clear eyes searching his own, “ _ Dragons do not burn, they embrace the fire. _ ” Perhaps that’s what Narcissa had done when she’d married Lucias — become a version of herself that she hadn’t originally recognized, someone who survived fire, who did whatever they had to do to survive. Someone who took every challenge with an easy smile, an unreadable mask, an unbreakable resolve. “ _ When you feel alone _ ,” She’d continued, her nails leaving welts on his skin, “ _ Know you _ ** _have_ ** _ to be. You can’t let anyone in.” _

People always whispered that Draco was like his father, following close behind in his footsteps, becoming the perfect replica of Lucias Malfoy — but perhaps Draco was more like his Mother. 

Draco had seen the gleam in Lucias’ eyes when The Dark Lord had pressed his wand into the flesh of his left arm, watched as his father smiled softly as he’d withered in pain — in that moment Draco had known. Lucias didn't care about him, not truly, not like fathers are _ supposed _ to. He was simply his father's investment, the prized possession of The Malfoy line, the final chess move that would catapult their family back into The Dark Lord’s good graces, this time forever. Perhaps it wasn't a bad thing that Draco was becoming more like his mother, her kind smile always given to him secret, her whispered encouragements playing in his mind forever. 

If he didn’t succeed, Draco’s mother’s life would end. Narcissa Malfoy, the only person in the entire world that loved Draco for who he was, down to his bones, would die.

And her blood would be on his hands. 

“You’re doing it again.” Pansy’s voice was soft, like she was speaking to a child who’d just awoken from a long nap, “You’re fading away to that place you go to.” He looked up to find her warm eyes on his own, her sharp features twisted in concern. Perhaps she’d been staring at him for a long time. Perhaps she was always watching him. “You’re going there more and more.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco responded in the tight voice of someone who was deeply unhappy, “I’m fine.” He offered her a small smile, one that he specifically reserved for Pansy Parkinson when he needed to feebly convince her that he was “**VERY** **FINE**” and “**TOTALLY** **MENTALLY** **STABLE**”. (It never worked, literally never, but that did not stop Draco from trying!)

“He’s obviously not fine,” Theo said in a loud stage whisper, “Does he know that we can see what he looks like?” When no one made a move to politely inform Draco that his plan to pretend things were fine until he died was in fact, a very poor plan, Theo turned his attention directly to where Draco sat. “You look a little dead.” His smile was crooked, his voice tinged with laughter — it was easy for him, Theo’s life hadn't been planned since his first breath.

For as long as Draco could remember, he’d stomped around the echoing halls of school, boasting about the importance of his family name, spinning tales of grandeur about how his future was brighter than the glint in a goblins eye. How one day, he, Draco Malfoy, would be _ important _ , he would _ finally _ be the **chosen one**. Staring at his friends around him, Draco suddenly wished he’d lived a life like they had, ones filled with loving parents, warm living rooms and laughter echoing through the halls — a life where The Dark Lord hadn’t chosen him.

_ It’s an honor _, Draco firmly reminded himself. It seemed he had to remind himself of that fact more and more.

“I think he’s in denial,” Blaise hummed, examining his pristine nails under the watery evening light that spilled from the window behind them, “No one willingly walks around looking like,” he paused, letting his gaze drip over Draco’s annoyed face, “_ That _.” 

Blaise had never been considered for a Dark Mission either, he didn't truly belong within the ranks of the Death-Eaters, not really. His blood status was a secret that everyone knew. Ilaria Pisani Zabini had twenty-four ex husbands, twenty-three of which belonged to Pure Blood High Society, it was practically _ impossible _ to remember that her first husband, the twenty-fourth, had been a Half-Blood.

Blaise met his eyes again, her dark eyebrows twisting together. “You’d tell us if something was wrong, yeah?” Blaise had never been one to join in on their childhood jeers about blood purity, never someone to see others as inferior because of their parentage (However, he _ did _ judge the masses on their fashion sense, and often saw those who wore a simple pair of trainers as inferior) — when he discovered the truth about Draco’s mission, about who Draco had become, he wouldn't be looking at Draco with the same concern. He would be gone.

“Yeah.” Draco said in a tight voice, trying not to think about the future without his best friend that awaited him, “I’m just stressed.” He let an easy smile slip across his lips, feeling his mask slip in place, “Who knew the three of you cared about me so much? Careful, or Lavender Brown will start an enthusiastic rumor that we’re in a four-person couple.”

“I think I’d be the top to you three bottoms.” Theo mused, “Out of all of us, I exude the most raw alpha energy.” He paused, “Imagine how rich we’d be with our combined trust funds. I could take a bath in galleons. I could swim around in it like a little duck —”

“As much as I hate stopping a scenario where someone swims in money,” Pansy argued, “You’re an absolute idiot to think I’d let _ you _be the top in this hypothetical four-way relationship. If anyone would be in charge, it would be me, and you all would say thank you.”

“You would certainly _ not _ be in charge.” Theo sputtered, “Ask anyone here, I am clearly the best choice!”

“It’s Pansy,” Draco said at the same time that Blaise simply answered, “This is in preparation for what is to come: thank you.”

There it was again, that unpredictable feeling of warmth that twisted its way around his ribcage, slipping easily into his heart — it swept over him whenever he watched his friends, their laughter echoing through the loud library. They were all safe in this moment, no one was hurt; and that's how they all would continue to live, memories in his head that he could look back upon after they’d all left his side. It’s like being the only one that knows a tidal wave is coming, and having to watch as everyone floats lazily in the ocean, never predicting the horror that is looming above them, waiting for the perfect moment to crash down. 

"I've got to go," Draco finally said, bracing himself for the inevitable headache that awaited alone time with _Hermione_ _Granger_, "See you lot around." He wouldn’t. After meeting with Granger (an interaction that would be short, he'd already decided) Draco would slip off to the Room of Requirement, where he'd spend his night as he spent most nights — trying to solve the impossible task that had been presented to him. As he left, he didn't look back.

"He's up to something." Theo said softly, a rare look of concern flashing across his face, "Do you think..?" He gestured to his arm vaguely, waving his fingers in what he hoped was a spooky fashion, "He did _it_?" Theo glanced between his friends, hoping they understood his (in Theo's opinion) very discreet hand movements. 

"Did what?" Pansy asked, finally asked, rolling her eyes at Theo's insistent eyebrow raises.

"Sold his soul to The Dark Lord," Blaise said in a bored voce, "Signed his name on the list of evil people who want to ruin the world, got a tattoo that represents all bad things."

"Of course not," Pansy scoffed. "He would tell us." As she spoke, her voice wavered. "He _would_ tell us, wouldn’t he?"

"You know him," Blaise said softly, watching Draco's retreating figure, "He'd set himself on fire to keep us warm."

A silence fluttered over the table, winding tightly around the three Slytherins. "I think I saw it." Theo finally said, his voice softer than before, "Only for a moment, but I saw his arm last night when we were changing for Quidditch. We _have_ to do something."

\- - - -

“You ready?” She asked, her voice sounding _ too _ cheery even to her own ears, like an overly enthusiastic radio host, or someone who willingly went door to door selling vacuums. “I’ve prepared my essay, have you? You obviously haven't, I don't know why I asked.” She was talking too much, tumbling heels over head into a one-sided conversation with Draco Malfoy. Her elbow brushed against his arm as she slid into the seat across from him, squeezing past an over-eager second year and their leaning tower of Magical Creature textbooks. The silence was weird and tense and awful — just like she’d expect silence with Draco Malfoy to be, who was, unsurprisingly, staring intently at her. When he did it from across the room it was fine, a habit that would soon be kicked; but when he started unblinkingly at her from across the table, Hermione felt a bit like she was on trial. (Or like she had spinach in her teeth.) 

She could feel the prickle of Harry’s eyes on the back of her neck, his habit of glaring at people from across the room was seeing no improvement, and he soon would graduate to yelling carefully crafted taunts her way. 

“You haven't been to class in ages,” Hermione continued, embracing the never ending fountain of words that spilled from her lips, “Pansy told the whole year that you contracted Gillyweed Pocks, which I have a paper on the antidote with me somewhere..” She began rummaging through her bag, intent on finding a school paper from her fourth year that she _ definitely _ didn't have with her, to give to someone who _ definitely _ didn't want it, ”Silly of me to think you’re prioritizing this project —”

“I did my part.” His voice was rough, like he hadn't used it in a while. Hermione looked up, blinking in surprise at her companion. He looked angry (like he often did whenever he caught her eye) but he also looked _ alive _, which was an improvement from earlier this week, when he’d slouched around school like an underfed vampire.

“Oh.” Hermione said, “That’s nice.” His eyes narrowed at her response. The world around them seemed to slow down, like everyone else was moving in slow motion and Hermione was moving _ much _ too fast. Glancing over at her partner, Hermione grimaced in a way that could come across as a smile. “Yes.” He finally hummed, after several silent moments of bitter awkwardness, “Very nice.”

They worked in silence after that, both engrossed in their respective research — every so often, Hermione let her eyes slip over his face, observing the sharp lines of his face and pale skin, he _ had _ looked better, Hermione admitted to herself, but he was probably trying not vomit in her presence. A very polite, but also incredibly rude, thing to do. 

“Please stop looking at me.” He said without looking up, his neat handwriting filling the pamphlets Hermione had dutifully produced for him to complete, “I can _ feel _ your eyes on my skin.” He looked up then, and their eyes met. “It’s not a nice feeling.” Draco said softly, still staring easily — of course _ Draco Malfoy _ was good at not blinking in an intense staredown that seemed tinged with the undertones of something else, _ Hermione _ blinked every three seconds.

“I’m _ not _ staring.” Hermione said, still staring, “You’re hallucinating. It’s most likely a side effect of your Gillyweed Pocks. Once a man thought he was getting married to his wife, but instead he got married to a goose — ”

“I don’t _ have _ Gillyweed Pocks.” Malfoy interrupted, heaving an exasperated sigh, “That was something Pansy made up.” He was beginning to regret showing up. He’d spent thirteen minutes standing in the abandoned Girls Bathroom, attempting to decide whether he could mentally handle a study session with Hermione _ Granger _ and her never ending stack of books.

“Why would she make something like that up?” Hermione asked, purposefully focusing on her school work, channeling her best I-Am-Harry-And-I-Am-Simply-Working-Definitely-Not-Snooping impression, “It’s not a very common disease.” Draco made a disgruntled sound that could be interrupted as a sound of agreement and the conversation came to a shattering halt. 

Glancing casually over her shoulder, Hermione met Harry’s eyes._ I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS! _ She mouthed, hoping Harry could read her lips from where he sat. **RADIOHEAD ** Harry mouthed back, **MUSTARD AND KENTUCKY. **Rolling her eyes, Hermione focused on the mission at hand — she trusted Harry, more than anyone else in the world; if Harry thought something was wrong, something was wrong. Swallowing her pride, Hermione tumbled heels over her head into the deep end.

“Are you alright?” Hermione said, her knuckles white around the mechanical pencil she’d smuggled into the school the past spring, “You look...different.” The look she received from Draco could wilt a plant. He looked deeply offended that she was speaking, angry that she was speaking, upset that she was speaking — really, he just had a lot of emotions about her opening her mouth.

“We’re not friends.” His voice was firm, as if he were stating a fact. “We don’t even like each other, I’m not sure why you’re so determined to check on my wellbeing.” Draco _ hated _ her, he hated how her eyes found the hidden cracks in a smooth surface, how she always seemed to understand the answer to a complicated question two seconds before he did. But most of all, Draco Malfoy hated how Hermione Granger seemed to make all the right choices, how she effortlessly rose above everyone around her — if _ Granger _had been given a daunting task by a Dark Master, she would’ve figured out how to accomplish it within four minutes. 

She was always saving the life of the fucking _ idiot _ who was destined to save everyone in the world, if that didn’t set her apart from the crowd, he didn’t know what would. And he hated her for it.

“I’m not _ determined _,” Hermione sputtered, somehow regaining her reckless ability to spew word vomit at anyone near her, “I’m just a very observant person, and I’ve happened to notice you slouching about the castle, looking half dead.”

For the second time that evening, Draco found himself on the receiving end of the statement **YOU LOOK (A LITTLE/ HALF) DEAD ** and quite frankly, he didn’t enjoy that description. In all honesty, he found it rather _ insulting _ that his best friend and his some-what enemy had _ BOTH _ used that description. Suddenly it all seemed too much, the weight of a mission he couldn't figure out, the fate of the entire world balancing on his shoulders, and now Hermione Granger of all people was _ observing _ him. It would take her a total of twelve seconds to figure out what he was up to. And now, he had to spend unfiltered amounts of time with her.

"— Maybe you have an Iron Deficiency?" Granger was still talking, her enthusiastic tone grating on the remnants of Draco's nerves, "You look like you're about to pass out." She smiled, and looked like she actually meant it. "Have you ever considered incorporating blood sausage in to your diet?" 

Nothing could be worse. 

“I have something I have to do,” He said, abruptly standing up, “We can talk tomorrow, after Charms Class.” Without a second glance, he walked out of the library, leaving behind his school bag, six books about potions, and three pamphlets of homework.

“That went well.” Hermione said to herself, as she watched Malfoy retreating frame. 

“No, it didn't.” Looking up she found Pansy Parkinson making herself comfortable in the seat Malfoy had just vacated. “We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am NOT someone who even READS slowburns!!!!!!!!!! what am i writing!!!!!!!!!!! oh my god


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